Where The Shadows Fall
by HousethatJackBuilt
Summary: Rick Grimes has a dark past, searching for something he has lost and hunting someone who might help him find it. Negan is a very powerful vampire and is also searching for something. When he happens upon Rick, he thinks he might have found what he's looking for. Rick needs Negan's help but Negan has set a high price. How far will Rick be willing to go to get back what he's lost?
1. Chapter 1 - The Mighty And The High

" _Keep your eyes on the prize if you want it all,_

 _You and I, the spider and the fly, will meet where the shadows fall..."_

 _"Grimes, Rick. Age 42..."_

The overweight man wearing a black pinstripe and _very_ expensive business suit leans forward with interest in the leather (and equally expensive) armchair, causing the two middle buttons of his jacket to come undone and a third to pop right off. But the overweight man isn't concerned with his jacket buttons right now, all he's concerned about the interesting man behind the glass...

 _"... Ethnicity: White, native of the Southern Valleys. Species: Human. Occupation: Rancher..."_

 __A substantially more physically fit and younger man in the private booth next door to his overweight neighbour, who still hasn't noticed the missing button on his now defective jacket, adjusts his earphones through which the information about the man on the other side of the one way glass is being fed in his native Russian mother tongue.

He takes a sip of his vodka and lime, being careful to place the delicate crystal glass back on the coaster and not the small table itself next to his own leather chair.

This man doesn't have a typical rancher look about him observes the Russian. This man looks hardened and mean. His face is worn and weary, yet there is still strength in it. His chiselled jawline is steely and gives his mouth a determined grimace, a grimace that if transformed by anger would no doubt strike fear into the heart of any man, the Russian has no doubt about that. But what is most troubling, no, _terrifying_ , about this man are those piercing blue eyes, those eyes that are like blue fire, one that will consume and destroy anything that dares to cross their path.

Yes, this man could be of great use to him, oh yes, great use indeed...

 _"... Full comprehensive medical exam taken place three days ago. No physical problems or external injuries, no internal issues, no sexually transmitted diseases or infections, multiple bodily scars and some facial scars but none that will cause impairment, physically fit and in good shape..."_

The deeply tanned, middle aged American man two doors down from the younger Russian one, who is now working on his second vodka lime, can clearly see that the man called Rick is in good shape, _more_ than just good shape in fact. His faded blue button down shirt hugs the contours of his sinewy arm muscles and clings to every upper body detail. The well worn black jeans he wears are just as comfortably fitting as the shirt, highlighting his narrow waist but straining tightly against his obviously strong thighs. Now if he would just turn around for a second...

Mister American runs a hand through his grey but full head of hair with one hand and takes a long drag on his cigar with the other, never taking his eyes off the man in the ten sided room behind the glass. He needs to calm himself for when it starts, which should be any moment now. He puts his cigar in the crystal ashtray on his side table and hovers his hand over the button device next to it...

 _"... No apparent psychological or mental issues, overall a very good piece of property, can be used for whatever purposes you wish. Full in depth medical list will be provided to owner after business has commenced. Bidding will begin in three minutes..."_

Rick stares at the multiple reflections of himself, noting how tired he looks... How utterly tired.

The bright overhead lighting bounces off of the ten projections that surround him in the decagonal pen, hurting his sensitive eyes and making him squint slightly. He can't help but wonder what kind of people - No, not people... What kind of _scum_ are dwelling behind those no doubt reinforced shiny barriers, watching him like a caged animal in a zoo exhibit.

He resists the urge to squirm uncomfortably. Even though he can't see their scrutiny, he knows what people like him are brought here for and it sickens him to even try to imagine the thoughts running through those twisted spectators heads. He hates to be looked at like an insect through a microscope by even just one person, so this is akin to something straight out of a nightmare.

His right index finger twitches, seconds later followed by his left one and he aches longingly for his Sun and Moon. He aches to have them hanging on each hip, feeling utterly naked and too light of load without their heavy yet comforting weight.

He knows that the one way glass is no doubt bullet proof, but he is willing to bet every coin he has that it wouldn't hold up against his silver Moon and gold Sun revolvers. If he had them he would fire and the glass would shatter, of that he is certain.

But he doesn't have them, because if he did he wouldn't be here. He never would have been allowed to get this far and getting this far is half the battle.

He tries to push the visualizations of blowing all of the anonymous viewers to hell and smattering their brains all over the probably very cushy viewing rooms they were definitely very comfortable in out of his head. He needs to focus on the second half of the battle and he can't do that with all of this violent imagery swimming around in his brain. It was likely to bring on another one of his headaches, and the headaches would bring the fever, the fever would lead to the shakes and the shakes would... No! He would not succumb to it, damn it he _wouldn't_!

Rick takes a few deep breaths to steady his mind and remembers the main reason why he is here, and why he must make this work.

He waits patiently and pulls the part of himself he knows is the true part out of the dark abyss and shoves it to the forefront of his mind. Yes, he is calm now and clear headed. His breathing and heart beat are steady and as one. His objective is in front of him and he will not dwell on anything else except that.

Everything now is out of his hands. All he can do is wait until it begins, and hope against all hope that the right person gets him. If they don't, well, he will make it work, or die trying...

 _"The bidding will begin in sixty seconds. Please press the button to your right should you wish to participate. Each press of the button equates to 5,000 gold coins, you may press this only once each time you bid. Double, triple or multiple button pressing during any one bid will result in immediate dismissal. You will be kept informed in real time via your earphones of your position in the process so please take note of your number next to your button. Bidding will end when there are no more presses from any participating buyer. Highest bidder will get the property. Good luck, we will begin in 29, 28, 27..."_

Nine bidders in nine separate booths behind the looking glass, each in their own private wonderlands wait eagerly for the end of the countdown. A few who are here for younger men and women, and one who is here for a much older woman, want this particular property to be gone quickly so they can move on to the next one and hopefully get what they came here for. They have no intention of bidding their hard earned (and in some cases, easily inherited) gold on something they have no use for.

But most of the clients like what they see very much, and most of them are on the edge of their seats. Suit buttons, vodkas and cigars are long forgotten and all that matters now are the buttons to their right...

… But we are, however, forgetting one room are we not? Ten reflections of the man waiting patiently for his fate to be decided inside that room, but only nine bidders? Ah, yes, there is but a tenth room behind that tenth reflection, but inside that room a bidder does not dwell. Something else is watching, _has_ been watching ever since the property stepped into the pen under the glare of those harsh, almost blinding lights.

The watcher in the tenth room stands inches away from his side of the glass, his nose almost touching it. He fights to keep his hands clasped behind his back, because putting his palms on the glass in front of him, which he wanted to do as soon as the man on the other side of it was presented into the viewing room via a platform in the middle of the wooden floor, would no doubt demonstrate a slight loss of control. And to demonstrate such a loss to one of the two men he trusts the most to follow his orders without question, who is now standing a few steps behind him half obscured by the shadows, would be dangerously unacceptable.

He clasps his right black gloved hand over his bare left one, painfully so, to distract him from the almost overwhelming desire to smash his fists right through the glass, which he could do with ease, and to reach out for the one called Rick and take him. Because he knew as soon as he set eyes upon him, that this man was meant to be _his_.

He studies Rick intensely with his dark brown, almost ebony eyes. There is no question that physically, the man is a work of art to look at. The dark greying stubble that covers his jaw only serves to highlight its sharpness and strength, matching perfectly with the rest of his angular facial features. His dark brown hair is messy and tousled but that only adds to his ruggedly handsome look. The scars that run across his face are just another addition to his character and the watcher doesn't believe for one second that this man is a mere rancher. One glance at those pale blue eyes told him that from the very first second.

Those eyes. Those are the eyes of a man that has seen everything and missed nothing. Eyes of ice, eyes that know no mercy, eyes that know only death.

But there is something else, something more, much more that just physicality of why the man with the black hand must have the man with the blue eyes. Only, he isn't sure what it is yet. Something feels familiar about him. This man has something, something even he doesn't know about... Yet, it keeps slipping away from the watcher, eluding him like a fading dream upon waking.

No matter though, because he is going to find out what it is himself. He will tread very carefully as he will not let this mysterious, bordering on consuming, desire to claim this man make him stupid and blind. No, he will first find out everything about this stranger, firstly starting out with why he has lied about being a rancher... Who is he really?

"Negan, the bidding has started Sir."

His right hand man, Asano Tadeshi, startles Negan, also known to many as Black Hand, out of his thoughts. Had it not been for the smell of smoke coming from the former Yakuzas constant lighting of cigarette after cigarette, Negan would have forgotten he was there entirely.

"And it's going up fast," he continues in a soft tone, taking out one earphone as he does, "So if you wish to step in, I would do it now Sir."

Asano's grasp of the English language is perfect and the still apparent hint of Japanese that peppers it is very pleasing to the ear.

Negan chuckles, a deep throaty one that to those who don't know him well, makes icy fingers run up their spine all the way to the base of the neck. Asano knows Negan well however, and returns the chuckle with a smile.

"Make the call my bat-shit crazy friend."

Asano picks up the receiver of the telephone that is on the table in place of a bidding button. This is the executive room, and the occupant of this room does not bid. If he wants the property that's being bid on, he gets it, no questions asked and tough sorry shit to the clients who did want the property. They would just have to go and piss their gold away elsewhere.

Asano mutters something down the phone in Japanese and within seconds the lights in the viewing room go out, coating it in perfect darkness. Negan has no problem seeing just as well as usual, if not better, in dark conditions and his eyes immediately go back to Rick.

He watches as one of the mirrors swing inwards, the occupant of the room (the fat business man, if one is to be specific) ordered to vacate when the bidding stopped.

Rick is manhandled forcefully out of the pen and through the booth to the exiting door at the back by a Saviour that Negan makes a special effort to remember so he can backhand the little shit next time he sees him. Just to make a point that an insignificant insect such as him is never to touch his property like that again unless he wants a lot more than just a backhand if he even dares to be so stupid a second time.

"Do you want me to put this one in the holding cell until..."

"That won't be necessary Asano, this one belongs to me," replies Negan with a smile.

He turns away from the glass, still never quite being able to get used to not having a reflection, even though it's been many, many years now.

Asano, who has now stopped smoking, but probably only for a few minutes Negan guesses, holds out Negans beloved baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire with a tattooed hand.

"Lucielle, my girl," Negan says lovingly, taking the bat gently with his gloved hand. "Let's go see if we can't get the new blue eyed boy to share some of his secrets with the big bad wolf, hmm?"

Both men step out into the corridor leaving the executive room in darkness. A small shaft of light creeps beneath the crack in the door, just enough to make the shadows visible, and for a split second they seem to move and shift, as if restless at the loss of their master.


	2. Chapter 2 - Black And Stone

_"Make room for the man who built the moon_

 _He arrived on a knackered horse._

 _Made no sound from the day he left town_

 _No one said a word of course."_

 **Two weeks earlier...**

 __The rain beat down hard from the midnight sky, as if the stars themselves were weeping at not being able to see the city below due to the thick grey clouds that obscured them.

The train tracks which crested the hill, both long forgotten and unused now, glistened with the water droplets in the moonlight that would occasionally peek through the clouds, making them appear to be studded with a million sparkling diamonds.

And there in the distance! Can you not see them yet? You may have to wait just a few moments longer, for the rain is getting heavier and a fine mist is slowly making its way across the Corvus River, but they are coming, sure as anything.

Making their way slowly up that long forgotten hill, following those long forgotten train tracks is a horse who cannot remember the warmth of his barn and a rider who cannot remember many things. But just remembering the significant things, which thank the gods who he's certain don't exist, he does, is enough for him to keep urging the horse forward, up, up and up.

The rider pulls the brim of his black Stetson hat down and the collar of his just as black duster coat up, shielding his face from the harsh elements and bleak twilight air. His breath comes out in puffs of smoke, his horses own breath doing the same as the beast plods up the hill, avoiding tripping on the track sleepers with an easy grace that contradicts his cumbersome frame.

The roar of the rain gets louder and thunder rumbles in the distance. A heavy storm is coming, one that is going to last a few days the rider reckons, judging by the scent on the breeze. He kicks his heels just a bit into his horses sides, spurring him on a little faster, at which the horse doesn't protest. The rider doesn't want to get caught in a thunderstorm as they still have the bridge to cross, if the crudely drawn map which is addressed to him, that seems to have been penned on some form of parchment paper, inside of his coat pocket says true.

At last, bone weary and hungry for both food and rest, they reach the top of the hill. The rider tugs on the horses reins, staying him for the moment and looks down upon what lies before him - The destination that seems to have taken years to reach is finally in sight.

Across the Corvus River which looks like a giant pool of black ink, ready for a similarly giant quill to be dipped in, lies Neo Lumina City. The rider reaches into his pocket and reads the map again, even though he has every detail of it memorized perfectly in his mind. The city is marked with a bold red circle, accompanied by the message written by an anonymous hand,

"BRONZE STAG INN, GOLDTREE LANE. TAKE THE PASSAGE WE HAVE MARKED, FOLLOW THE TRACKS AND CROSS THE BRIDGE FOR ENTRY INTO THE CITY. WAIT AT THE INN, 7PM EVERY NIGHT UNTIL SOMEBODY REACHES OUT. WE MAY BE ABLE TO HELP YOU FIND WHAT YOU'VE LOST."

And on the reverse, "DISPOSE OF THIS MAP BEFORE YOU ENTER THE CITY. RATS (NOT THE RODENT VARIETY) ARE EVERYWHERE, TRUST NOBODY."

He puts the map back in his pocket before it gets sodden, making a mental note to toss it into the river when they cross the bridge. He looks towards said bridge now, which is marked on his little guide page as 'Slavers Overpass', and the weariness which has been taking up residency in his mind, body and soul for what seems like an eternity, reaches an almost unbearably exasperating level when he sees with his abnormally keen blue eyes, the at least hundred foot chasm near the end of it.

Something, some natural disaster, general decaying wear and tear or hell knew what, had caused a portion of the bridge to fall away into the murky depths of the water below, making any potential entry or exit from the city, from this direction at least, seemingly impossible.

The rider clenches his teeth together causing his jaw muscles to visibly tighten, a habit he could never quite get himself out of making an appearance as it often does when he's trying to lean more towards problem solving than letting stress overcome him.

"Could have included the damn gap in your little cryptic message too," the rider mutters bitterly against the collar of his coat.

He sighs. Soaked, cold and utterly miserable, he clicks his tongue and gives a soft kick once more encouraging his reliable horse into a gentle trot, this time over the hill and down it, towards the direction of Slavers Overpass.

There is no way on earth he is going to chance swimming across that pool of shadow marked as Corvus River on the map. Who knew what kind of creatures were dwelling beneath its oily surface. He would never make it anyway. He is a strong swimmer but the river must stretch at least five miles towards the city, and the rider is far too exhausted to even attempt it. If his tiredness didn't kill him on the swim, the surely below freezing temperature certainly would.

This way is marked on the map for a reason. Whomever left him that message knows that no other entry into the city is safe (rats everywhere, trust nobody). This one must be unguarded, the now mutilated bridge a deterrent in itself for any potential outside threats or inside flight risks. And even if it were manned by some watchmen, it would only be a few to keep up appearances.

The rider reached under his long coat, momentarily taking his hands off the reins to brush his Sun and Moon revolvers with his fingertips. He often did this every now and again for reassurance. He couldn't quite remember where he'd gotten them, or how they'd come into his possession. All he could recall were the names they had been given, not quite knowing how he knew those either, but he did.

He also knew, even though he hadn't had to use them since setting out on his long journey to this city, save to kill some game here and there for food, that should a gun battle ensue and he had cause to use them, heaven help any poor souls who got in his way when he had silver and gold in each hand, because no man on earth was as deadly as he was with a gun. Another fragment of memory that was eluding him at the moment as to how he knew that, but he hoped that in time, those shattered pieces of his mind would return to him, along with all of the others he appeared to have lost.

There was one fragment however, that he did remember, and that was the one he valued above all others. The rest of them could come back whenever they wished, but this one wasn't going to leave him. Without it he had no reason to go on, and he clung to that small piece of hope like a man on death row praying for the call from the governor.

The rider, or known as from birth as Richard, but preferring Rick, Grimes, takes the reins of his horse as they near the bridge.

The now shadowy figures swallowed up by the rain and mist, walk on beneath the dark and threatening sky, ever onwards, using the bright neon lights of the city as a guiding beacon through the oncoming storm.

One way or another Rick was going to cross that bridge, and if it were the last thing he was ever to do, he was going to find what he'd lost.


End file.
